


Afire

by beaubete



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, M/M, Omegaverse, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-27 23:29:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2710634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt on the 00Quties Kink Meme - <i>Q unexpectedly goes into heat whilst his mate, Bond, is away on a mission. Luckily it's a relatively easy and short mission, so Q feels only a small amount of guilt when he calls Bond in the middle of it. Give me lots of desperate phone sex and Bond rushing home to take proper care of his omega</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Afire

**Author's Note:**

> [You knew it was me, right?](http://00qutieskink.livejournal.com/333.html?thread=1869#t1869) If you're not already hanging out on [the meme](http://00qutieskink.livejournal.com/), you should be! The more prompts that go up (that aren't mine!), the more I can write!

While Q is normally capable of ignoring the needs of his body quite well, even he finds it difficult not to notice the soft, wet sounds of liquid dripping from his pants leg.  There are runnels of the stuff—he must look like he's pissed himself—and when he looks up with mortified eyes, the techs are shifting uneasily.  There aren't any Alphas in Q-Branch—too much of a risk with the Omega section chief, even if he was bonded—but the Betas look distinctly uncomfortable, and the Omegas are beginning to squirm in sympathy.  If he doesn't go now, Q knows he'll end up setting off a branch-wide Heat, and some of the Alphas in other divisions already make jokes about Q-Branch being an Omega brothel.  He makes up his mind quickly, unsnapping the lines from his laptop with practiced, casual ease.

"I'm going to move Double-oh Seven to private communications," he says loudly, and he knows R is already shifting into Code 9 protocol: memos are going out that he is assuming the helm for the next 3-9 days.  For the next week, roughly, R will be Q.  Still: "Code 9, if you would, please," Q suggests calmly before stepping into his office.  The door hisses closed, sealing him off from the others, and if he listens carefully he can imagine he hears the neutralizing gas filling the rest of the branch to erase the evidence of his biology.  He's left his Q mug out there, and he mournfully presses his palm against the glass of the window before entering the code; no one can enter now until his hormone levels read normal.

He sinks into his chair, knowing he's soaking through.  It's hard to think now there's something pressed against him—it's as if he can suddenly feel the deep ache of want, as if it sweeps over him like a tide, primal and hot—but now is not the time.  He connects the laptop and the moment he does, Bond's voice is on the line, worried.

"Q?  Q!"

"My apologies, Double-oh Seven.  It became necessary to go offline briefly for a change in location.  I'm afraid there wasn't time to warn you in advance."

Bond's breath at that is sharp.  "Are you—"

"I've moved to my office now.  We are on a discrete line," Q informs him, tone crisp though his voice shimmers a bit at the edges.  Bond knows what this means, he knows he does.

Bond's ragged breath into the mic confirms it.  "Q—"

"I must apologise again, for my upcoming," Q pauses, tongue darting out to wet suddenly dry lips, "distraction."

"Not at all, darling," Bond says, and Q can hear the—he doesn't know what—in it.  He's not so far gone that he whines at the tone of Bond's voice, but it's a near thing.  "You do what you need to do.  What your body needs you to do."

The rasp of his zip is loud in his ears.  He knows Bond can hear it, knows he's listening hungrily.  The cold of the air is shocking through the cotton of his pants; he feels delicate, swollen and warm, and the temperature of the room hasn't yet caught up to him, though soon it will be dense and muggy.  For now, he sits there with his thighs spread, the fly of his trousers opened as wide as it will go and peeled back like the skin of an exotic fruit.  Bond breathes in his ear.

"Are you taking off your clothes, Q?" he asks, not quite breathless.

"Not yet," Q confesses.  He feels a bit like he's in a sauna, bones melting to jelly as the wet heat of himself spreads through the seat of his trousers.

Bond huffs a small laugh.  "Are you teasing yourself, then?"

"Yes.  A little."

Bond's sigh at that is expansive.  "I meant to be home by now," he says softly, and Q's heart thuds at the tenderness in it.  "I did."

"Global terrorism comes first," Q reminds him, and Bond laughs.  "And I'm early."

"You come first.  And second, and a half a dozen times before you get sore," Bond replies, and it's Q's turn to laugh.  "Are you in your office?"

"With my trousers open," Q confirms.  

"Just open?"

"Just open.  It's—I can't touch right now.  I'll fly to pieces."

Bond's groan is one of Q's favorite, the low one that comes from his throat when Q kisses his clavicle.  "You're ruining your chair."

"Fuck the chair."

"I might want to after you've soaked through it."

But his pants are getting clammy, sticky, uncomfortable.  Just the sound of Bond's voice purring in his ear has Q slicker than the Heat could do on its own, has him shivering as his body prepares itself, unable to understand that Bond and his fat knot aren't here in the room with him, that they're actually in Quebec, that he won't be here to soothe this clawing beast of want that's coming awake in his belly.  He shifts, pushing at the sodden fabric, and it slides down his legs in a wet rush to land with a thick sound between his feet.  The fabric of the chair is rough, almost nubbled, underneath him, and Q lets his thighs fall open, spreading himself for Bond's voice.  His cock is hard, shivering in the warming room.

"Was that—"  Bond asks.

"Yes."

"Fuck."  Bond's voice is tight, and on the screen his dot moves erratically, spinning in a tight circle.  "Fuck.  Fuck, Q."

"That's the idea," Q murmurs encouragingly.

"I can't just duck into a closet and listen to you," Bond tells him.  "I can't even— _fuck_ , Q!"

"Fuck you, too."  The words are impish, but Q's spine arches against his chair at the thought, at the idea of Bond's hands so firm and steadying on his hips as he rocks against him, as he rides the thick swell of his knot.  He gives a shuddery little sigh, right at the edge of a keen.

"You're going to have to take care of yourself, darling," Bond tells him.  There are a few pops of gunfire, and Q knows absently he'd be worried, but he can still hear Bond panting into the mic.  He waits as Bond clears the hall and is rewarded: "You're going to have to put those pretty little fingers in your arse."

The thought of something filling him makes Q's hole actually twitch, the little spasm of muscle dancing up his thighs.  He spreads himself wider, hooks his knees over the chair's arms, and reaches down to brush the soft, wet furl of himself.  His body's ready; he's slick and lax, but he doesn't dare push inside just yet.  He wants—he <i>wants</i>.  His voice lifts in a desperate whine.

"Oh," Bond breathes, voice stark with wonder.  "You want it so bad, don't you, darling?  You don't know what to do with all that want."

"Please," Q gasps.  "Please, just—"

"Shh," Bond tuts quietly.  He sounds so gentle, just the way he does when they're home and it's Bond's hands on his body, Bond easing him through his heat.  Bond likes to finger him through the first round, though they both know it only stokes the flames, likes to test the flex and stretch of Q's body and the span of his nerves until he's begging, pleading hungry for more.  Q has a pit in his stomach that only Bond's knot will fill, and Bond likes to give it to him slowly.  "I want you to put your finger inside.  Just one.  Just the first one; slip it in, darling Q, because I know you're so wet and ready for it.  I know you are."

He is.  Q's body accepts his forefinger readily, easily.  He doesn't thrust because Bond hasn't told him to, just sits with a finger deep inside himself and whimpers.

"Good boy."  Bond's praise is like sunlight, and Q tries not to squirm.  "Good, good boy.  Move it—you know how you like it, just a very shallow in and out.  I know it's not enough stretch for you, darling, I know.  I know you want more, but it's not time yet.  Just one, in and out a little."

The sound of wet coming from between his thighs is obscene; Q groans as he follows Bond's instructions to the letter, fingers quivering with the urge to plunge inside.  He could do it, could be selfish, could wank himself furiously now and finger himself until he spills on his belly, but it'll be weak, a ghost of the orgasm he could have had, and selfish.  Instead, he tips his hips up like the good boy Bond says he is and obeys.

Bond's breath is growing more ragged around his words.  "Do you think you're ready for another?" he asks, and Q wriggles.  "Use your words; I can't see you."

"Yes."  It's about all he can manage with Bond panting in his ear, with a finger up his arse and his slick pooling beneath him.  "Oh, please, yes."

"One more, then," Bond permits.  Q sinks it in just as soon as he does, a high, thin sound tearing free in his chest.  The cry makes Bond pause—on the screen, his dot seems to be leaning on the wall—before he growls, guttural and starved.  Liquid heat drips into Q's belly at the sound of it.  "I'm going to spank you for this when I get home.  I'm going to fuck you so hard you'll be bow legged for a week."

"Please," Q murmurs.

"Two fingers aren't enough for you?" Bond taunts, and electric fire zips along Q's arms.  He sounds like—"No," Bond says slowly, voice dark.  "You need a knot.  Sweet little Omega needs a plug, needs to be stoppered up, doesn't he?  Nothing else will do; you'll burn yourself up without it, won't you?"

"Please!"

"I suppose you can have another."  Bond's feeling generous, and Q knows it's because his knot is coming.  There's a frission in Bond's voice, a certain tone he takes when—"All alone with nothing but your fingers to soothe you.  You've got me hot and wet for you, Q, and you're not even doing anything about it.  I'm so hard I've nearly knotted my own goddamned fist and you're just lying there with your fingers up your own arse, aren't you?"

Q's toes are curling with the force of his lust.  Every inch of him feels hypersensitive, shaking as his body tips him deeper into heat.  Bond's words are cruel, reminding him of what he can't have, and even three fingers aren't enough to assuage the need that feels like a fist lodged in his gut.  "Ye-es," he confesses, voice cracking and thin.  "I—"

"Go on then, Q.  Come on," Bond tells him, and Q's whine gets louder, more desperate.  He can't, he can't quite—  "One more.  I know you can do it, darling.  Four fingers—you'll be spread so wide; your pretty hands are so good.  You can handle it, can't you, darling?  It's not enough, I know it's not enough to satisfy you, but it'll have to do for now.  Come on, darling, just one more."

And he's nearly fisting himself, four fingers nudging deep at the source of his ache, dizzyingly good even though he can't satisfy it.  Not by himself, but with Bond's voice in his ear he can almost—

The pleasure crests as Q writhes like he's being electrocuted—in many ways, he is; Bond's voice scrapes over his skin like steel wool on his nerves, coaxing him through the blinding orgasm.  He frigs himself frantically, rubbing and touching himself through the sweet-slick wet clutch of his body, the width of his hand almost enough to emulate the thick of Bond's knot, though his body isn't fooled and the shape is all wrong.  He arches, tips and tips and tips and then the chair falls over, but he barely notices as the sweet rush of orgasm takes him someplace safe and fuzzy.  Bond is swearing over the comm and Q hears the moment he comes, too, knows Bond is clenching his fist around the swell of his knot and his body clenches hard, sympathetic spasms shaking in his legs and arms as the aftershocks hit in waves sweeping him away.

He wakes in the dark of the office, Q-Branch a distant thought to the ache of heat still gripping him somewhere between his bollocks and arse.  For a hot moment, he thinks it's that desire that wakes him, but—

"Darling."  Bond's palm is cool on his sweaty brow, gentling him up from the uncomfortable pile of the chair.  Blood rushes back into his fingertips and Bond brings him close, tucks his head in so he can smell that familiar musk.  

Q's fingers go weak, and his heat builds again.


End file.
